The old man sat dejectedly on the edge of a tattered couch, surrounded by furniture, and watched as the movers carried his belongings out and piled them around him.

He didn’t quite understand when they told him the house belonged to the bank now. He didn’t understand a lot these days, his brain was a little muddled. He supposed that was normal for a 90 year old man.  He knew he suffered from foggy thinking. He remembered when his wife, Frieda, was alive. She always took care of things like making sure the mortgage payment got sent in on time.

Not that he had a mortgage anymore. One of his clearer memories was taking Frieda on a long overdue vacation to celebrate after the house was finally paid off. Kids were all grown, house was paid off, that was a good time in their lives. The kids all had lives of their own now.

The thought of kids brought a slight but confused smile to his face as he struggled to remember their names. Bob Jr of course and Margo, Mildred, Mitch and Sarah.

Mitch. The smile left his face as another memory tugged on his brain.

“Dad, just sign the papers! Don’t be stubborn, I need the money!”

Mitch made it sound ok. He had needed it, for some reason.

He sat as the sun sank behind the horizon staring at the house that had been his home for close to seventy years. The house where he had carried his bride over the threshold, where they had raised five children. Where one of those children had betrayed him.

Frieda was dead, he was long since retired, most of his friends were gone and now his home was gone as well. He pulled the pistol from his jacket pocket. The one he had thought to defend his home with, but in the end, he didn’t have it in him to harm another person. Even the ones dragging him from his home.

“Frieda” he thought, as he pulled the trigger.

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